Sawbones

by Melissa Lenhardt

  “Yes. It seems in his alcoholic haze he saw straight through my disguise. I don’t suppose it helped when I talked of needlepoint to him. I didn’t remember telling him about Aunt Emily until months later.” I shook my head, still wondering why I had let my guard down and shared the story with the man.

  I smiled at Anna and continued my story. “The doctors and surgeons I worked with were livid, not only because I was a woman but also because I had fooled them so completely. That was the end of my war experience. It mattered little. My father was injured while out in the field and I needed to take care of him. Look.” I pointed. “The river.”

  Ahead of us Amos Pike was organizing the crossing of the Trinity River, the last major crossing until the Red and the last before Fort Richardson. Maureen was walking back from the Warren’s wagon. Her face was flushed. When did she move to walk with Cornelius? I wondered.

  “Do you not trust me to get Piper and Púca across?” I winked at Anna.

  “No.”

  “I am deeply wounded. Here,” I said, placing my hat on Maureen’s head. “Your face is red from the sun.”

  Maureen took the stick from my hand without comment and gently prodded the oxen. Anna and I stopped and watched her.

  “You do know your father is courting Maureen?”

  Anna nodded.

  “Do you mind?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Not if it makes her happy.” I sighed. “I suppose we should give them our blessing.”

  “Tonight at dinner.”

  I nodded and asked the question I had pondered for a few days. “Would you be interested in helping me with my practice?”

  “Nursing?”

  “At first. You can study the one medical book I have. If you are good enough, and interested, we can write off for more books, and you can apprentice with me.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “It will be as much for me as you.”

  “When can we start?”

  I grinned. “Let’s get across the river first.”

  “I should go help Father,” Anna said. She trotted off a few steps before turning back. “Thank you. Thank you, Laura.”

  I smiled and waved and watched her run back to her father, a youthful spring in her step.

  PART TWO

  FORT RICHARDSON

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I watched the Comanche massacre my wagon train from the safety of a buffalo wallow.

  They came with the setting sun at their backs and in the wagon train’s eyes. At first I thought it was a mirage until the trembling ground beneath my feet, the war whoops carrying across the plains, and the skittishness of the animals told me it was all too real.

  The trembling terror of war paralyzed me, a terror I had worked diligently to forget. I lay facedown on the ground and covered my head with my arms. The sweet aroma of the wildflowers I’d been picking became cloying, sickly sweet, but did nothing to mask the smell of death that blew across the prairie, down into the buffalo wallow, and wrapped its arms around me like an old friend. I closed my eyes and prayed this was a dream, that I wasn’t hearing the gruesome noises of death I had struggled so hard to forget. I mumbled long-forgotten prayers as my bladder released.

  The screams of the victims and the whoops of the Indians intermingled in a hellish cacophony. Gunshots rang out. Harnesses jingled. Oxen brayed. Men yelled. A dog barked, yelped, fell silent. Far above the din, someone screamed my name.

  I sat up on my knees and peered above the tall grass surrounding me in my natural fortress. The chaotic scene that greeted me burned into my memory like a brand. Our ten wagons were strewn over a quarter of a mile, some toppled over and attached to the dead or dying oxen, some flying across the prairie trying to escape. Indians chased those, and within a few feet, the teamsters were dragged from their perches and to the ground. If the fall from the moving schooner didn’t kill them, the Indian did. Blood flew through the air, and after a soul-tearing scream, the Indian held aloft the scalp of their victim.

  “Laura!”

  Through the carnage, I saw four Indians riding away to the east. Anna lay across the lap of a retreating Indian who wore my slouch hat. Anna reached out toward me and screamed my name again. I took a step forward, but was stopped by another bloodcurdling cry.

  Rifle aloft, Amos Pike rode into the center of the massacre, shooting repeatedly as he charged. Two Indians dropped before the big Indian with the fresh scalp wielded his gun like a club and knocked Amos from his horse. Semiconscious, he was dragged by one arm to a broken wagon wheel. The large Indian tied Amos’s body to the wheel, his arms and legs forming a large “X” while another Indian built a fire amid the surrounding rubble. As the fire caught, the Indians roamed the wreckage, searching for survivors.

  I couldn’t move, nor could I look away. Fear did not paralyze me, cowardice did. I did not want to die and I knew if I moved, I would die. I covered my ears in a vain attempt to block out the sounds of the charnel house a hundred yards away but it grew louder and louder, vibrating the ground until the sound surrounded me.

  I heard something that had been haunting every waking hour of my life for two weeks: the braying of cattle. This time, the sound had a desperate note to it. I sat up again and saw 750 head of cattle stampeding in my direction, driven by Amos Pike’s cowboys; their faces sweat streaked and enraged.

  A few cattle veered off from the group and threatened to overrun me, but the main mass of cattle put their heads down and charged straight through the destroyed wagon train, overrunning whatever was in their way and stampeding any victim unlucky enough to be alive. The Indians, while surprised, were not defeated, merely momentarily distracted. A few ran with the herd, others mounted their horses and let the stampede run its course. Their horses were eager to give chase, but the Indians held them in check. The Indians turned against the charging cowboys who had been shooting their pistols into the air. They were now trying to shoot stationary Indians while they galloped forward. The Indians leveled their bows and let their arrows fly. Every cowboy, save one, fell from his horse. The last cowboy was chased by the nearest Indian, tackled bodily from his horse, and killed with a few swift blows of his hatchet.

  The cattle were gone, leaving in their wake deathly silence and a haze of dust lit by the blazing wagon fires. Through the swirling dust, I saw the Indians lift Amos into the air. He was conscious now, blood running down his forehead from the gash where his scalp used to be. He knew before I did what the Indians intended. With brave defiance, he screamed, “I’ll see you in hell!” The Indians laughed and threw him into the fire.

  The sounds of Amos’s screams reverberated in my head. I wondered, later, if it was Amos’s screams I heard or my own, because at that moment, the Indians turned in my direction. In one fluid movement, the largest Indian was on his horse and riding toward me, Amos’s scalp flapping against his leg. I could not move. The gun holstered on my hip was forgotten.

  I watched Death approach. Everything I had accomplished, every bit of new ground I had broken was rendered moot, was to be destroyed at the hands of an Indian. There was no one left to mourn me, to miss me, to wonder what could have been. I thought of the mother I never knew and the father I missed so dearly and of Maureen, most assuredly dead and waiting for me on the other side, a chastisement on her lips for wandering away from the wagon train. I closed my eyes as the gunshot rang out.

  The familiar jingle of cavalry, the pounding of horses’ hooves, and the welcome notes of a bugle sounding charge disoriented me. For a moment, I was back at Antietam. When I opened my eyes I saw the Indians mounted and riding off. A small regiment of black soldiers, led by two white officers, ran past me and after the savages leaving me alone staring at the wreckage of my future, the sole survivor.

  * * *

  It was not a conscious decision on my part to move toward the carnage, but something—a hidden hand, the thought there might be someone I could help—propelled me forward. I stumbled and fell heavi
ly to the ground, the churned earth pillowing my fall. I lay there, resting my cheek on the dark, loamy soil and considered never moving again, of welcoming the death I had embraced only moments before. Feeble moaning cut through the unnatural silence. With dread, I picked myself up and moved forward.

  I hobbled over the uneven ground. The smell of blood, burning flesh, and cow manure surrounded me. Amos had long since stopped screaming. All that remained was the crackle and pop of his burning flesh. I turned my back on the pyre. He was beyond my help.

  I swallowed a sob and moved forward to find Maureen.

  She lay in the middle of the wreckage, Cornelius a few feet away. A savage had taken a hatchet to Cornelius and left his torso a pulpy mess. He had not been scalped, unlike Maureen. Flies were swarming around the bloody mess that was once Maureen’s face. The face, which had over the years offered love and support, judgment and condemnation in equal measure was now missing the bottom half, so turning her death mask into a grotesque half grin. Somehow I knew she had been alive when they had taken her scalp, that they had chopped away the bottom of her face to stifle her screams to me.

  I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep from vomiting. The feeble moans of the living stiffened my resolve.

  I found a coarse blanket nearby and lay it over Maureen and Cornelius. I stared at the flowers I still clutched in my hand, wondered where they had come from, before remembering. I’d planned on tying a ribbon around them and presenting them to Maureen at dinner, with my blessing. I placed them on the blanket and moved on.

  I found Frau Schlek staring vacantly into the sky, her hands futilely holding organs spilling out of the gash where her unborn baby should have been. The baby lay next to the blood-smeared wagon, his tiny head crushed, his cord still attached to his mother. Herr Schlek’s body was a few feet away, his head farther away still. Their four children were nowhere to be found.

  Frau Schlek looked at me. Her mouth opened and closed, and with a Herculean effort, she choked out two words. “My baby.”

  I knelt down beside her and cradled her head in my lap. “It’s a boy.” My voice broke on the last word. “A strong baby boy.”

  She smiled the beatific smile of a new mother and closed her eyes. I stayed with her until she died, stroking her hair and talking in a soothing voice of nothing in particular. I placed the broken body of her baby in her arms and covered them with a quilt from their wagon.

  My circuit of the wreckage confirmed what I’d already known: everyone was dead. Four arrows poked out of Walter’s chest like pins in a pincushion. The cook’s tongue was cut out, his scalp taken as well. The anger and brutality of the Indians was plain on every corpse I found. There was no one to help.

  I returned to Maureen and Cornelius. Blood had seeped through the blanket where Maureen’s face had been. I stared insensibly at their bodies, barely registering the rumble of thunder in the distance. A light breeze ruffled the flowers. A gust followed, blowing the flowers from the bodies.

  My gaze traveled to my wagon, somehow still upright. Piper and Púca lay dead in the braces, their legs tangled with each other’s. I walked to the back of the wagon and removed the bucket of water. How it had survived without toppling, I did not know. I walked over to Amos and threw the water on his funeral pyre. It did little good. I returned to my wagon, replaced the bucket, and stood there.

  There was no one to help. No one to save.

  My wagon shuddered and lurched forward. I jumped back, looked around frantically, expecting the Indians to have returned. The scent of roasting meat and silence greeted me. The wagon lurched again, followed by a long, plaintive bellow. I walked cautiously to the front of the wagon where Púca struggled to stand on a broken leg. Blood coated her neck, from Piper or another wound, I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Finally, a creature I could help.

  I pulled my gun from its holster, aimed, and shot Púca in the head.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The smoke from the barrel of my gun left a jagged path as I lowered my trembling arm.

  “Ma’am?”

  A young cavalry officer sat on a blown horse right outside the line of wreckage. His wispy mustache hung limp with sweat. Dirt coated his baby face, though it did not camouflage his concern.

  “Lieutenant Kindle.”

  “Are there any survivors?”

  “No. Only me. Ten dead. The four children have been taken, as was Anna.” I choked on her name. I turned away to regain my composure. I picked up the bucket and walked toward the river.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get water.”

  The river was farther away than I remembered. I trailed my hand over the tops of the tall prairie grass, trying to forget the scene behind me, but finding no solace in the beauty around me.

  The jingle of bit and creak of saddle signaled the man’s arrival. “Ma’am.” The voice was deep, confident in the way men in command are, but with an underlying gentleness I didn’t expect. Gentleness and pity would break my composure. I kept walking.

  “I need to get water.”

  I heard the soldier dismount his horse and limp through the grass toward me. “My men will do that.” He grasped the handle of my bucket and tugged so I would stop. I could smell the mud of the riverbank, see the tufts of cottonwood chaff floating in the air, hear the frogs croaking as if the world had not just ended, as if this were any other day.

  He pulled the bucket from my hand. “You’ve done enough.”

  I rounded on him. “Done enough? I didn’t do anything. Save anyone. They’re dead, while I am still here, as useless as I’ve always been accused of being.”

  He studied me out of one eye, half in profile, as if trying to place me, or understand me. I was familiar enough with the puzzled expression of doubting men to predict where this conversation was heading. I did not have the energy or the brazenness to argue with the men who had saved my life.

  “I apologize.”

  “I wish we’d arrived sooner.”

  I looked down at my bloodstained hands and noticed a broken stick protruding from the man’s thigh.

  “Is that—?”

  “An arrow? Yes. I hoped you could help me with it.”

  “Right. I’m—”

  My introduction died on my lips when he looked at me full on for the first time. The long red scar running down the left side of his clean-shaven face was too distinctive to be denied. When my eyes met his, I knew beyond a doubt the officer I helped at Antietam stood before me.

  “I—”

  “I’ve also been shot in the shoulder.”

  “Let me see.” I stepped forward and raised my trembling hands. I grasped them into fists to still them.

  “You aren’t well.”

  “I’m fine.” I lifted my hands in surrender. Thank God they did not shake. “Would you like to unbutton your coat?”

  He unbuttoned with his right hand and winced when he tried to take it off with his left. I pushed his hand away as I pulled the coat open at the shoulder. I slipped my forefingers through the bloodstained hole in his shirt and pulled, exposing the wound.

  I slipped my right hand beneath his coat to his back and probed around the wound with my left. The man stiffened. “It didn’t quite make it through,” I said. Blood seeped from the wound, but would be easily staunched with a tight bandage.

  I stared at the arrow in his leg and wondered how in the hell I was going to remove it.

  “Can you walk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come with me.”

  I focused on my wagon and blotted out the activity around me, the officer’s orders to bury the dead. I climbed into my wagon. Clothes spilled out of Maureen’s trunk, and our box of kitchen wares had been ransacked, but my medical trunk and bag were untouched at the front of the wagon. I picked my way through the clothes on the floor and retrieved my medical bag. “Do you need my help removing your coat?”

  He unbuckled his holster and handed it to me. Together, we removed his navy wo
ol coat. His scrutiny was unnerving. I hoped he did not recognize me. If he did, would he have known my name?

  I doused a square of cloth with whisky and cleaned around the wound. “A pressure bandage should suffice until I can take the bullet out.” I mumbled to myself as I worked.

  “General Sherman mentioned you.”

  I pulled the bandage tight around his back and across his chest. “Does that hurt?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I smiled and continued to wrap. “You are a poor liar—” I paused and looked at him questioningly. I did not know his name.

  “Kindle. Captain William Kindle.”

  “Lieutenant Kindle’s uncle.” I tied off his bandage. “That will do for the moment.” I was trying to avoid the wreckage of the wagon train and to avoid Kindle’s penetrating gaze, which left me few places to focus. I dropped my head to assess the arrow protruding from his thigh. “Now for your leg. There isn’t much blood, which concerns me.”

  “You’re afraid the arrow is plugging its own hole.”

  “Yes.” I eyed his suspenders. “I need a tourniquet.”

  “By all means.”

  I looped the suspenders loosely around his knee, moved them up above the arrow and tied them off. “Sit here.”

  He sat on the back of the wagon while I climbed inside. Images flashed through my mind: Frau Schlek’s gaping stomach, her husband’s head caked with blood and dirt, Maureen’s mutilated face. My back to Kindle, I covered my mouth and fought against nausea. Could I do this? I had to, needed to. He was grievously injured. If I didn’t help him, I was sure he would die. I dropped my hand from my mouth. I couldn’t live with myself if another person died today due to my cowardice. I pulled a bottle of whisky from my medical trunk and handed it to him.

  “Thank you.” He removed the cork and took a swig. His sun-weathered face was noticeably paler than it had been moments before, setting off the redness of the scar. He finished taking a drink and caught me staring. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said nothing.